A diary of a different kind
by S. Vespertine
Summary: I am a different person: all the pounds I've lost prove it.In the short span of a few months, I was stripped of everything;so now I must write a diary of a different kind. Returning from Thailand, and what came after, wasn't all it was cracked up to be...


Disclaimer: the only thing i call dibs on is the story plot itself, to a point, and any original characters, namely Isabelle; all else is Helen Fielding's.

Without wanting to sound cliché, obvious etc. Colin Firth is what inspired me to write again, after years of blank pages, and loud as heck silences. To quote a special singer, (who none of you guys will probably know :P) "There is a world of intents behind the clear eyes you lower a little." - I hope with this story to finally put an end to my silences filled with intents - to sleep, perchance to dream.

Please bear in mind that all I know of Bridget Jones comes from the movies - I am not familiar with, in fact my eyes have never met the words penned from Helen Fielding's hand - literate or otherwise, so forgive the discrepancies that might come up with the canon-world.

I usually scorn the movies and stick to the books - but Colin Firth as Mark Darcy is undescribably HOT. Without a doubt the best Darcy on this side of EVER. That Oscar could not have found a more deserving owner to go to. All my admiration and congratulations to him.

* * *

**A DIARY OF A DIFFERENT KIND**

* * *

**CHAPTER ONE: Abide with me**

The flat was quiet as Bridget stared out one of the French doors and into the streets below. A chilly afternoon breeze drifted into the living room, but she kept her place of vigil.

The pale sunlight drifting in gave a soft glow to the small room that was not unattractive.

Her thoughts were scattered, but behind them lay thoughts of a sombre, more consistent nature, and those she wished to avoid.

Bridget almost wished, for a fleeting moment, she were still smoking … but she'd kicked that particular habit a while ago out of necessity. Looking at the clock on the wall behind her, she realised she'd better prepare for her friend's arrival. Closing the French door, Bridget made sure that the living room was neat and tidy, then went to the sofa.

She picked up the water bottle she'd left on the cushions and snuggled it to her chest. Shivering, she made a mental note to replace her diary on the shelf behind the sofa, then made her way to the bedroom, where she began digging around her wardrobe to find a cardi that would keep her warm.

No sooner had she put her arms through the sleeves, that the doorbell rang. Bridget hurriedly looked in the mirror and mussed her hair with her fingers to give it some semblance of order, then huffed and gave up.

She briskly went down the steps and into the hallway, then opened the front door. Immediately looking into her friend's face she smiled warmly in greeting.

"Hi Isabelle, come in."

Isabelle smiled back and stepped inside, where they shared a friendly hug. Bridget closed the door and they started chatting. Bridget's mood brightened imperceptibly; Isabelle had that effect on her.

"Guido says hi, by the way. He's forgotten about today, I wager, because he didn't mention it at all this morning before we left the house."

Bridget looked at her questioningly, then understood what Isabelle was talking about.

"You mean about your anniversary?"

Isabelle smiled wanly and nodded.

Bridget saw the saddened look in the woman's eyes and tried to cheer her up.

"I'm sure it's not a case of forgetting, per se, just that … he hasn't had the opportunity to _do_ something about it. Maybe he wants to surprise you, and is acting like he's 'forgotten'," here Bridget used air quotes, "but really, he's got all this romantic soirée planned for the both of you that will leave you breathless."

Isabelle looked dubiously at Bridget, not really believing that was a possibility.

The corner of her mouth lifted in a light smirk.

"Perhaps a romantic weekend getaway in some b&b out of the city, with all the amenities of course; I swear the man can't go a single month without his sauna etc. and I thought I was a spa-holic!"

They both laughed as they settled on the sofa. At that precise moment a small black cat, Bridget's Issey, darted into the living room, smelled Isabelle's expensive leather boots, took one look at her mistress and jumped up on her lap, settling into the 'squatting chicken' position, as Bridget affectionately dubbed it, and started purring.

Isabelle stroked her tiny head and the cat turned deeply satisfied yellow eyes up at her, angling her head to get better friction.

"Bridget, she looks great! How has she been settling in?"

Issey was one of the many cats in need of a home that were temporarily placed in the vet clinic Isabelle worked at. One day, Isabelle simply turned up at Bridget's house with a cat carrier, opened it, took a small furry creature out of it and unceremoniously dumped it in Bridget's surprised hands, saying "There, you now have yourself a companion of the non-male species!" – an inner joke between the two.

Bridget fondly stroked Issey's back, marvelling at how small she was for a cat. The adoration Issey felt for Bridget was mutual, that was certain.

"She's been surprisingly ok. I hadn't had a cat since I was a child, but Jinxie left quite a lasting impression on my memory – he was a terror! – but thankfully Issey's just been a darling. Being toilet trained and already spayed certainly helps. But apart from that she has slowly but surely taken over the ruling of the house – nothing much going on round these parts that she doesn't know about! But though being an essentially quiet creature, you're still the only person she will allow within her presence, apart from me, of course."

Isabelle smiled indulgently. "She obviously has very good taste."

The two women laughed, then Bridget asked her friend if she fancied a cup of tea, to which Isabelle readily agreed to, not leaving out the part about the nummy crummy biscuits she'd had last time she was round. Bridget assured her the pantry was well-stocked with them, then disappeared into the kitchen to prepare their afternoon tea.

Issey grew seemingly bored of staying on the sofa with no Bridget, and scurried off to the upper level of the apartment, where a room full of cat accessories and toys awaited her sharp pretty little claws.

"Bridget I finally remembered to bring you that book I was telling you about last week! You simply must read it, I hadn't enjoyed myself in a while before I found this beauty!" Isabelle shouted to make herself heard all the way into the kitchen where Bridget was busy.

"Knowing my cousin like I do, I thought it was going to be hate at first paragraph, but it was surprisingly love at first—book cover!"

Bridget smirked.

" Is it a definite improvement from that trash you would have had me read not too long ago? I'll have you know that the experience, had it been followed through to the very end, would have probably caused me serious psychological harm! Then where would poor Dr. Rasgotra be, I'm bonkers enough as it is!"

She heard her friend's peals of laughter float from the living room and chuckled lightly herself.

"I always thought that anyone who ever said they never read trashy novels could not truly call themselves literary types – just because it has some good eye-candy for women (or men, according to tastes) on the cover, doesn't mean it can't be a completely enjoyable read!" Isabelle replied.

Bridget smirked again.

"Isabelle," she began patiently, "you simply cannot compare works of literature by the likes of Wilde and Austen to some jumbled up cluster of paper that is dubbed 'clever' just because it makes illiterate women (and men, of course) all over the country laugh like a pack of silly geese at the mention of the word 'shaft'!"

Bridget placed the mugs and plate of biscuits that the both of them were very partial to on a tray, and carried it into the living room, where Isabelle was trafficking with the very complicated system that was her phone.

There was a deep furrow of concentration on her face, the kind that made her eyebrows scrunch down together over serious green eyes, her mouth pouting the slightest bit. Bridget laughed out loud as she took in the mystified expression on Isabelle's face.

"What's the matter with it, that you're looking at it as though wishing it to spontaneously catch fire right here and now?"

Isabelle grumbled in disgust.

"Chuh, I told Guido that my old, though battered Nokia was just fine, and that giving me a Samsung smartphone was akin to putting a small disaster zone in my hands, but he went ahead and got me one anyway!"

"I doubt it is ever so complicated, what is it you're trying to do?"

Isabelle sighed in frustration. "I'm trying to get it to write automatically for me, but all it does is force me to press the buttons multiple times to get the correct letter in – sending him a bleeding letter through the postal service would be quicker, for fuck's sake!"

Bridget laughed again.

"Here give it to me, I'll show you how to put the T-nine back on, won't take a second – " she was interrupted by the phone in question trilling. Isabelle looked even more mystified. "What on earth is that?"

Bridget leaned over her friend's shoulder and pointed out that she'd gone over to e-mail.

Isabelle looked up at her.

"E-mail? What the hell am I supposed to do with an e-mail when all I want to do is write a blimmin' text?"

Bridget laughed. "You should see the look on your face, Is, it's so comical!"

Isabelle blinked, a slow smile blooming on her lips. "I told him, I told him not to spend money on these rubbish things for me!"

Bridget patiently explained that just because she couldn't use it properly, didn't mean they were rubbish, then went on to explain that they were all the rage now, starting from as early as eight year old children, going well into the fifties and sixties.

Isabelle looked unimpressed.

"I suppose it's my own fault for letting it slip that the monitor on my old phone cracked; I'd been keeping it secret for well over a fortnight just to avoid having a disaster literally placed, free of charge, on my hands, but the man is curious as a cat and sharp as a fox, I swear; he mentioned it ever so casually that I didn't think twice about replying in kind. Needless to say, I was immediately horrified that I'd let it slip, and resignedly prepared myself for the catastrophe that would likely be handed to me. Funnily enough, I wasn't exaggerating, for once in my life."

Bridget shook her head bemusedly at her friend, who was once again trying to get it to do what she wanted it to do, and failing spectacularly. With a huff of frustration she threw it aside, only to have to snatch it back up again as it rang.

Bridget waited for Isabelle to finish her conversation on the phone, and helped herself to a biscuit as she took a hearty sip of her tea.

Isabelle rolled her eyes at the person on the other end, then grimaced in a style most reminiscing that of a dog baring its teeth. Bridget stared at her questioningly; Isabelle mimed a rude hand gesture, and Bridget chuckled under her breath, for she knew who her friend was talking to.

"Yes, I will definitely bring it up with my husband tonight, let you know tomorrow, probably afternoon as I work in the morning…right well yes, I realised that but – so don't include them then, what do I care – alright well I'm sure it will be fabulous whichever way I happen to look at it," Isabelle replied, clearly annoyed by the conversation, then muttered under her breath "what with everything it's costing us it bloody better be fabulous –"

Bridget grinned and munched on the biscuit.

"YES, thank you, that will be all then, I'm … listen I'll be pulled over by the police if we don't close now, I'm driving… right, BAI!"

She growled in frustration and chucked the phone on the sofa again, looking utterly disgusted.

"Was that the designer again?" asked Bridget, already knowing the answer anyway, for she'd heard about the woman already from Isabelle.

"Designer my arse," replied Isabelle darkly, a look of contempt flashing briefly on her face, " she does the work of a decorator and calls herself an interior designer – she couldn't match a sofa to a pair of drapes if her life depended on it!"

Bridget looked at her bemusedly. "If she's so inept, why did you hire her in the first place?"

Isabelle hummed darkly as she looked back at Bridget, scoffing. "Because I'm not the one who hired the silly cow – Guido's mother went and did that – without truly consulting me – and Guido just happily hugged her and carried on like nothing was wrong!"

Bridget looked at Isabelle knowingly. "Is Guido very close to the apron strings, then?"

Isabelle sighed, running her fingers through her long, gorgeous brown locks. "No, it's more a case of making his mother happy at every twist and turn, simply because she's always right." Isabelle rolled her eyes.

Bridget made a sympathetic noise then handed her the steaming mug of tea, and passed her the milk.

They sat contentedly and drank their tea for a while, Isabelle going through a rather alarming amount of biscuits – Bridget took a sneak peek at her friend's perfectly lovely figure, then down to her own recently changed figure.

Isabelle in turn stared at her in worry when she saw Bridget's pensive look disappear, only to be replaced by a veil of sadness.

Isabelle ran a comforting hand on Bridget's arm and squeezed her wrist lightly, offering her silent support.

They chatted for a bit longer, but just as Isabelle was telling Bridget a funny story that would culminate in a good cackle at some poor fellow's expense, they were interrupted by a loud crash upstairs.

The women simultaneously raised their heads to look up at the ceiling, and that's when they heard a light pattering of feet swiftly galloping away.

Then silence.

Bridget shook her head and huffed a sigh. "That was undoubtedly Issey, I'll just pop upstairs to look at whatever mess she's gotten herself into. If you want more biscuits, you know where they are, won't be a minute."

And with that Bridget swiftly ascended the stairs in search of her feline companion.

Isabelle's phone started ringing again, and after looking at the caller id, she sighed in annoyance. That silly cow was calling her again. She wished she knew how to make it go straight to voicemail, and longed once more for her beloved battered old phone, the non-smart, but clever kind.

She ignored the call until it stopped ringing, then grabbed the offending item and got up to stash it at the bottom of her voluminous bag, where it belonged. She smirked vindictively, then shook her head at her own silliness.

Just as she was returning to her seat, her elbow knocked something over, and she felt an instant's worth of panic at the thought it could be something of value that would end up breaking.

It wasn't, and she exhaled in relief when she realised it was a leather-bound book that ended up on the floor. Isabelle pushed her hair behind her ear as she bent down to pick it up.

She looked at it curiously for a second – the cover was plain black, no picture or writing – and thought it strange for a book. When she turned it over to close it properly, she was lightly startled. The pages were plain but filled with what she recognised as her friend's calligraphy.

As she unconsciously started reading what she'd thought would be notes about Bridget's work, she realised in surprise that it wasn't a notebook at all.

It was a diary.

Bridget's diary.

Now, Isabelle had many, many qualities that made her the amazing woman that her close ones knew and loved, however one of her flaws was something she shared with her husband – though many said she undoubtedly surpassed him in that respect: she was more curious than a housecat.

And so, against her better judgement, and feeling slightly guilty for delving into her friend's very private thoughts, she read the words written on the page that was open in her palm, a slight furrow immediately forming on her intent face.

"For crying out loud, Issey, you know better than to climb up there – though how you manage to get up so high without footholds is beyond me – you must be a curious specimen indeed, the flying kind. What am I to do with you?" Bridget sighed as she cleaned up the overturned things the cat had knocked over when she threw herself to the ground from her impossibly high perch up on the curtain rack.

She scooped the cat up into her arms and placed her into the landing, shutting the door firmly behind her.

"Do try not to get into places you mustn't – at least for the rest of tonight."

Bridget then proceeded to go back downstairs, and called out to Isabelle,

"Is, sorry about taking so long, the cat bloody knocked things all over the place in the bathroom again, didn't break any glass fortunately, I wouldn't want her to cut the pads of her feet … I keep forgetting to shut the door more firmly, she loves going in there for some obscure reason –"

Bridget entered the living room and stopped when she saw that Isabelle was on her feet, reading something with the uttermost look of concentration Bridget had ever seen on her friend's face. She looked curiously down at the book her friend was holding, idly wondering if it was the one she'd been trying to get her to read in the past few days, and with an amused smile, she walked closer.

"Isabelle, is it truly that interesting? I'm starting to think I should give it a go, if it's got you so consumed – "

Bridget stopped talking when she realised what it was Isabelle was reading.

Isabelle snapped out of her trance, realised she was no longer alone, and quickly snapped the diary shut, a rose blush of mortification blooming over her face.

She looked at Bridget with a most contrite expression on her face. Her curiosity landed her often into trouble, but she hadn't been friends with Bridget long enough to be able to guess what her reaction could be, however she dearly hoped she wasn't very mad at her.

"Bridget I am so sorry, I walked past, knocked it to the ground and when I picked it up I started reading without realising, I didn't know it was your diary, please forgive me, I didn't mean to pry into your most private tho-"

Bridget brought up a hand to stop the tirade and get Isabelle to calm down; her friend tended to speak a mile a minute when agitated, and could quickly run out of oxygen, then hyperventilate.

Isabelle stopped speaking immediately and stood there, looking chagrined, giving Bridget the loveliest pair of puppy dog eyes she had ever seen. Bridget secretly smiled; Isabelle never even seemed to realise that hers was the face that could launch a thousand ships – or earn herself forgiveness for anything bar murder – that too, probably.

"I'm not angry at you, Is. If it had been me, I would have probably caught a sneak peek too once I realised what it was I held, that's the whole point of diaries, they're meant to be secret, or at least private, but somewhere along the line someone will come and read them regardless. You don't need to have a heart attack over it, what would I tell Guido?"

Isabelle smiled in relief and took Bridget's hands into her own.

"Truly? You're honestly not mad that I was snooping around in your most private thoughts? I have a very strong sense of curiosity, sometimes I think it makes me disabled, the things it gets me into!"

Bridget reassured her that she wasn't really mad, and explained that she felt a sense of closeness, of camaraderie with Isabelle that she had never felt with any other friend she had ever had in her life – like they were on the same wavelength, as well as in the same boat.

Isabelle looked at her tenderly, and gave her a quick hug, mumbling that she felt the same. They parted and returned to the sofa, but from then on the conversation was somewhat one-sided, because Isabelle seemed distracted, and kept glancing now and again back at the diary across the room.

Noticing this, Bridget stopped talking, and Isabelle blushed again when she realised she'd not listened to a word her friend had said.

"Sorry, Bridge, I don't mean to be so rude, or prying, truly I don't, it's just that…"

Bridget seemed to know where she was aiming, and asked her without preamble, "What was the entry you read just now?"

Isabelle quickly replied, and it was obvious she was dying to know more, but not show it. Bridget decided to put her out of her misery.

"What is it you want to know? I know that I can be open and honest with you, because that is the kind of person you are; you make me feel like telling you things I don't even tell my parents is only going to make me feel better. You have been nothing but good and kind, and shared – still share - a lot with me, even though we haven't known each other for a long time, and I guess I want to … pay you back in kind."

Isabelle felt, not for the first time, like the two of them were kindred spirits. Traumatic events in both their lives had led to their meeting, and even though they were both singularly strong women, they had quickly and casually formed a strong bond, one she hoped would only get stronger with time.

"It said that – look Bridge, you don't have to tell me anything that makes you uncomfortable. It won't change how I feel about our friendship at all."

Bridget looked down at her clasped hands for a moment, collecting her thoughts, wondering how to start.

Then she looked up at Isabelle's open face, they eyes that she felt she knew would not condemn her, took a deep breath, and began her tale.

* * *

_"It was in April that started the chapter that would undoubtedly change my life completely. My … boyfriend, and I, had erm … just broken up, and I was feeling very miserable. My ex contacted me one day and offered me to go and work with him on this guide show he was doing for a TV program, and the location was Thailand – a world as far away from London and Ma – well anyway, it sounded really enticing, and though I wasn't thrilled to be anywhere near him again, I was upset enough to want to feel some small modicum of thrill. I accepted the job and the week after that, I was on a plane with a friend of mine, Sharon, on our way to Thailand … "_

Isabelle listened attentively, but for her part, she wasn't a passive listener – she grew incensed at Cleaver's advances, and made sounds of deep disapproval where appropriate, even laughed when Bridget told her about mistakenly eating magic mushrooms, and the subsequent pleasant hallucinations she experienced.

When Bridget got to the part about the airport security breaking the snake and finding all that drug stashed inside, she felt herself go pale with horror at the difficult time her friend must have gone through.

It was with abject horror and the uttermost sense of pity that Isabelle listened as Bridget described being taken to a women's prison in Bangkok, and the days she spent there. Although her descriptions weren't very graphic, just detailed enough to give her an overall sense of the picture, Isabelle's intuition lead her to understand that it was all so much worse, so much more traumatic – the conditions the women were kept in, the food, the smell, the lack of hygiene, being stacked into a single cell for hours with unwashed women's bodies pressing against you from all sides in the stifling heat … the more Bridget spoke, though she omitted a great deal, the more Isabelle's regard for the woman altered, and inevitably heightened.

_"…so then I found out that I was feeling so sick for a very specific reason, one bad enough to take me out of prison and into the infirmary/hospital facility they sent women prisoners to, when they needed medical care. The doctors there, at least those who spoke English passable enough to be understood, explained that I had probably been bitten by a mosquito that caused me to get dengue fever … "_

Bridget carried on explaining what happened, though skipping over even more details, and Isabelle understood that she was sparing her the worst of the things she had to go through.

The thought that there might be some form of untruth or embellishment in the story never once crossed her mind; Bridget was as rare an honest and modest person, as seldom Isabelle had met in her life.

She sat closer to Bridget and held her hand when she started telling her in stilted sentences about what came next.

If she hadn't been horrified already, Isabelle felt sure the sense of horror would have threatened to choke her, as Bridget confided what she discovered in that filthy hospital, tears now running freely over her face, which was a mask that spoke of an anguish only Isabelle, who had gone through something traumatic, though nowhere near as bad as her friend's, could even remotely begin to understand.

Isabelle felt tears prickling at her eyes when Bridget told her that she found out she was pregnant whilst lying alone on that hospital bed, thousands of miles away from home, with a terrible tropical disease that sapped away at her, and with the prospect of spending goodness knew how much time in an overcrowded women's prison, in Bangkok – alone, completely and utterly alone.

* * *

They sat there for hours, that afternoon, Isabelle lending what support she could give to Bridget, who, once she'd started talking, seemed to find no way to stop. The pain, the anguish, the worry and the sense of hopelessness she'd almost succumbed to in the few months prior to their meeting all seemed to pour out of her.

It probably did her some modicum of good to finally let go of some of the pain that was eating away at her, but it also helped Isabelle to put some things into perspective in her own life.

The story seemed to reach what the naïve would construe as a reasonably happy ending, when Bridget spoke about finally returning to London, all healed and free of charges, after the traumatising months spent in that prison – but Isabelle was not naïve, despite knowing beforehand where the story would reach its most treacherous and painful ending yet.

Bridget spoke of feeling ill for days after her return to London, that past June, ill enough to scare her and send her packing to the OB/GYN her GP had recommended.

When Bridget described the symptoms, Isabelle felt an answering pain in her belly, a phantom feeling of remembered agony. She knew what was coming, knew the worst horror was about to come, one she too, had had to face – but she put up a brave front and kept close to her friend.

At some point during the story, Issey had come into the living room again and had settled herself on her mistress' lap, pitifully trying to offer some comfort; as a very sensitive and affectionate creature, she could feel the deep hurt, and tried her very feline best to soothe away at it, by purring, and rubbing herself against her mistress' body, and licking at her hands, the way cats do when trying to lick away their own hurt.

Bridget told her that the doctor, who had become familiar with her recent history, warned her of what could come, and that she needed to take it easy. But all the rest and care in the world seemed to be useless. A couple of weeks after her return to Britain, Bridget was being rushed by a friend to St. Mary's hospital, with very heavy bleeding and strong cramps in the stomach.

A few hours later, Bridget miscarried the baby she had not known a till a month prior that she had been carrying.

* * *

By the end, Bridget was visibly drained, physically and emotionally, and Isabelle felt right along there with her.

She never imagined she could ever feel for a person and their circumstances, what she now felt for Bridget, and the extent of her feelings left her silent.

She couldn't imagine what it would take to keep something like that locked away everyday, and still function in a reasonably acceptable manner; she was now truly glimpsing at the courage Bridget had – heaps and heaps of it – but she knew, from personal experience, that sooner or later one would crack from the strain – and it wouldn't be pretty.

She found her voice again and asked her something that had been heavily on her mind ever since the beginning of the story, but had kept quiet until now.

"Bridget … what about the baby's father? Your … ex boyfriend. Does he know about … all of – this ?"

Bridget shifted her eyes to the cat in her lap and remained silent for a moment.

"I … tried to contact him a few months ago … it only seemed natural that – after the circumstances…" Bridget shook her head, then spoke once more,

"He wouldn't even hear of seeing me, couldn't care less about hearing from me; that, he had made abundantly clear be-before…" she began sputtering, deep emotional turmoil on her face, the tell-tale sign of tears back in her voice,

" and so I never told him … about anything that happened to me after I last saw him. For all I know he's enjoying himself with some other glamorous woman, one from his own circle, someone truly stunning, and rich, and beautiful, and perfect for him in every way … all that's left for me to do is to pick up the pieces, and try to get on with some semblance of dignity with my life."

Isabelle felt moved to tears again. She leaned forward, took Bridget's face in her hands and raised her head till they were looking at each other again, then spoke clearly:

"Bridget, no woman – no scratch that, person … could ever hope to be what you are today, despite all your flaws, whatever they may be. To have faced what you have, to have gone through what you did, in those conditions, under those circumstances, and with hardly anyone friendly by your side … and I don't mean since your return to London … despite all of that…the fact that you are here, with me, as you are … is nothing short of a miracle. And I – I am glad, and proud to call myself your friend."

Bridget smiled tearfully into Isabelle's eyes, who were themselves shining back at her with a profound sense of closeness – there goes that sense of kindred spirits again – and hugged her tightly.

The two women held each other in a tight embrace, pouring tears of hurt and despair onto the other's back, relieved that they had found someone in this huge world, to hold their hand, to understand them, to offer them that shoulder to cry on no holds barred, no fees charged … and in a way, a process of healing began anew, for them both.

Though the road to recovery was long, and arduous still for them both, for the first time since their ordeals they truly felt like they were no longer alone.

* * *

**A.N. - your input is deeply appreciated. I may come back and edit this to my liking, because after not writing a stitch for so long, I feel astoundingly rusty - hope this doesn't read like a kid's book :)**


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